


A Clean Break

by fictorium



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in some nebulous time pre-Paris. Andy's job is all about being prepared, but she can't cover every possible eventuality, can she? Written for the Quick 'n' Dirty Ficathon, for the prompt 'broken heel'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Clean Break

  
Andrea Sachs likes to think she's prepared for anything, but that kind of complacency could well be her downfall. Sure, she has a few months of successfully putting out fires and creating a system of back-ups and Plan Bs that any government would envy under her belt, but Andy knows that she’s only as good as her latest achievement of the impossible.

  
Star photographer of the moment pulls out of a shoot at the last moment? Andy has a list of the next three up-and-comers that Miranda has granted quiet approval to. Yellow is suddenly, irrevocably out of style but all the accessories come in that color? Andy has a spare box of the same items in jade (which it turns out, is totally going to be this season's thing, just as Jocelyn originally suggested). She's averting crises before they start, right down to having Starbucks blends and a professional-grade coffee machine installed in the office kitchen, and persuading her favorite barista to provide a detailed tutorial late one rainy Wednesday evening. Information is stored in three different locations, she never gets just one email address for a new contact if there's a second available. Even Emily has let one or two grudging compliments escape in unguarded moments.

  
So, when there's a run in Miranda's stockings, Andy has spares in three different shades. A surreptitious raid of Miranda's purses and dressing table has provided Andy with a list of cosmetics to always have spares of, and there's usually a sewing kit, a first aid kit and cash in three different currencies lurking somewhere in Andy's Marc Jacobs, Chanel or James Holt purse. Everyone in the office knows by now that Andy is the person to go to for a throat lozenge or the not-usually-given private cell number of a facialist or masseuse.

That makes it all the more heartbreaking, when--on a day when Andy is feeling particularly good at her job--the unthinkable happens. Miranda is trotting ahead of Andy as they enter the converted warehouse that serves as the showroom for Anastacia someone-or-other who just might be the next fashion thoroughbred in Miranda's impressive stables. Miranda is muttering a litany of complaints about New York traffic, the driver who isn't Roy and anything else that happens to displease her when the quiet corridor is disrupted by an ominous 'crack'.

  
It sounds--bizzarely, Andy thinks--like the sound of a baseball bat making sweet, home run contact. Maybe it's the echo, but as she stares at Miranda's back she's somehow surprised to see Miranda stumble. Miranda, who can walk in four-inch heels more easily than mere mortals can in comfortable flats, has stumbled so badly that she almost goes ass over teakettle. Andy gasps and runs to her side, already scanning for signs of injury. Miranda, however, looks unperturbed in her immaculate ensemble--the navy blue material of her skirt and blazer aren't showing so much as a wrinkle, and the only sign of anything different at all is a slight redness in her cheeks. She won't meet Andy's eye.

  
"What happened?" Andy asks, because something must be wrong for Miranda to have stopped walking so suddenly.

  
"Shoe," Miranda utters, trying--and for once, failing--to look bored.

  
It's then that Andy looks down and see that Miranda is balancing mostly on one foot. The other is drawn up in a way that lets Andy see the broken heel dangling from the underside of a blood-red leather pump.

  
"But you didn't hurt anything? You're okay?" Andy knows she's risking life and limb for asking stupid questions--for asking anything at all--but this is one time when it's important to confirm. The urban legends run rampant in the halls of _Runway_ \- that Miranda has worked eighteen-hour days with the flu, that she attended a charity dinner despite having a broken collarbone, or Andy's personal favorite--that she finished a flawless presentation to the board despite being in her third hour of labor with the twins. Andy doesn't know how much of that to believe, but she needs to be sure that the horrible crack was only Miranda's heel and not a broken ankle, or worse.

  
"I am fine. The shoe is not." Miranda kicks it off in disgust, leaving it lying on the stripped wood floor like an unfortunate victim just awaiting its chalk outline. It has the slightly comical effect of making her lopsided, although she manages to look as haughty as ever with her hands on her hips and a truly exasperated expression.

  
Staring at Miranda is a cover for Andy's own panic. She has no kind of glue in her bag, and she doesn't want to contemplate what Miranda's reaction to Andy approaching $600 shoes with Superglue would be anyway. She's running through a mental list of people she can call to send a fresh pair with a courier, but they're in Queens right now and Andy isn't even sure Emily knows where that is.

  
Before Miranda can open her mouth with a vicious little reprimand, inspiration finally strikes. Andy fumbles in her oversized purse for the hidden zipper and despite her clumsy fingers manages to liberate the plain black ballet pumps she carries for emergency errands and days when her feet won't forgive her for ten hours of Louboutins or Jimmy Choos.

  
Miranda's horror at the sight is palpable, and Andy almost takes the suicidal decision of allowing a nervous laugh. She might be improvising, but Miranda in Aldo flats is really beyond either of their imaginations. Instead Andy pointedly steps out of her own black pumps. They'll clash a little with the dark blues of Miranda's outfit, but something has to give.

  
Dropping the flats to the floor with a dull splat, Andy is surprised to see Miranda cooperating without complaint. In fact, she steps out of her remaining shoe, letting her bare feet rest on the wood for just a moment. Before Andy can bend to pull on her own change of footwear, she's stopped in her tracks by Miranda's hand on her shoulder.

  
It's for balance, Andy realizes as she tries to remind her entire respiratory system that it needs to _work_ if she's going to stay alive. Miranda steps into first one, and then the second of Andy's donated shoes, and although Andy takes a half-size bigger than Miranda, there's no immediate complaint. Miranda releases her grip, and Andy is shocked to find herself mourning the contact. Miranda's hand had been surprisingly warm through the thin fabric of Andy's blouse, but Andy shakes off the strange sensation and gathers up Miranda's ruined shoes before finally pulling her flats on and standing straight once more.

  
"I'll have another pair messengered over while you're in the showing," Andy promises, shoving the red pumps into her purse with very little ceremony. Miranda takes one, testing, step before deciding she's safe to move and continuing her brisk trot down the hallway. It's only when they reach the huge metal door into the showroom that Miranda stops, abruptly, causing Andy to almost run straight into her.

  
"Thank you," she says in that breathy whisper of hers, and Andy nods even though Miranda can't see her doing it.

  
The door opens then, and Miranda is greeted in the usual flurry of ass-kissing disguised as air-kissing, leaving Andy free to hold back and make the necessary call. As she presses speed dial one for the office, she shakes her head again. She feels kind of...funny, and it's hard to say why. Luckily, Emily's snappish tones disrupt her dwelling on it, and then Andy is off again with being good at her job.

  
*

  
An hour later, and Andy is clutching a sleek cream shoebox and waiting outside the showroom like a good assistant should. Of course, she could have slipped in at any point to take her seat somewhere behind Miranda, but this is only an informal viewing; Miranda’s here to put the fear of God into a designer approaching their first _Runway_ deadline, not to deliver judgments and take copious notes. Andy takes advantage of the downtime to shoot off quick replies to a dozen emails and update her to-do list for the rest of the week. It feels like a reward, somehow, and she smiles at the thought of Miranda not summoning her, just to say thanks for loaning her shoes.

  
She snorts at the very idea. Miranda might occasionally slip and say the words, but she’s never been known to let someone slack on their work in repayment for anything.

  
Then the quiet chaos is upon Andy once more, and the door slides open to reveal chattering staff of the designer trying to detain Miranda when she wants to leave. Tight lines of frustration are in evidence around Miranda’s mouth, and so Andy carves a path through the small crowd to her, and Miranda is able to stride out ahead once she has Andy to use as a human shield. When they leave the grasping accolytes behind, Andy shakes the shoebox gently to indicate that Miranda can change now, and Miranda nods in agreement.

  
They could wait until they’re back in the car, Andy supposes, but that’s three floors and almost a whole block from where they stand now. She scans the hallway for open doors and spies an unoccupied studio on their right. Faking confidence in a way that she’s well-practiced in by now, Andy leads Miranda right in there before closing the door behind her.

  
They have privacy now, and that’s vitally important in everything Miranda does. The public parts of her life are reluctantly so, and that’s the real reason behind her fifteen-minute appearances at the party of the season—she doesn’t want to be stared at and admired. Andy likes that about Miranda, she realizes, and despite the coldness and the impossible demands, it still isn’t close to being the only thing Andy likes.

  
Miranda comes to a halt beside an empty desk, and she leans against it as though she owns the place. (She actually might, a little, because Andy has access to all of Miranda’s accounts and knows just who is responsible for backing this new, visionary artist with cold, hard cash.) Andy takes a second to appreciate the sight of Miranda in profile in the late afternoon sun. The ceiling here is mostly glass, reflecting the sunshine straight down onto the iridescent textures of Miranda’s hair and jewelry. It’s breathtaking, and Andy forgets to conceal her blatant admiration.

  
Not that Miranda seems to mind, when she catches her. Miranda’s hands grip the edge of the desk to support her as she pulls herself up to sitting position, and Andy intuits the next step without knowing quite how. Pulling the lid from the simple box, she steps closer to Miranda before descending carefully onto her knees. The shoes are removed from their luxurious packing material, and Andy watches as her own shoes drop carelessly from Miranda’s elegant feet.

  
And then, in her own messed up version of a Cinderella moment, Andy picks up the left shoe and slips it gently onto Miranda’s waiting foot. Naturally, it fits perfectly, and Miranda points her toes to admire the replication of the look she selected for herself earlier that morning. The red leather is vibrant and polished to a lustrous sheen, the same shade as the lipstick Andy once wore to a benefit, a choice that Miranda had quietly complimented her on. Andy had blushed so furiously that she hasn’t dared to repeat the effect since.

  
Which just leaves the other shoe, and though Andy knows all too well the perils of adopting a glacial pace, she doesn’t want this oddly intimate moment to end. Perhaps it’s just the thrill of seeing Miranda look that little bit more human, but that doesn’t quite explain the dull ache between Andy’s thighs. Doug has been teasing her for weeks about having a ‘lady boner’ for Miranda Priestly and she’s done everything short of laughing in his face to dissuade the idea; she’s getting enough attitude from Nate without him overhearing Doug’s pointed remarks. Confronted with the proximity of Miranda’s bare legs though, Andy has to reconsider her vehement denial.

  
It’s madness, plain and simple, that when she slips the other shoe on, Andy lets her hand linger. It’s certifiable insanity to let her finger trace a slightly wobbly line over the top of Miranda’s foot before allowing her thumb to caress the elegant jut of Miranda’s anklebone. Andy holds her breath and waits for a reprimand that doesn’t come, and when her fingers begin to stroke higher on Miranda’s calf, she finally summons the courage to look up.

  
What greets her is the sight of Miranda with her eyes closed and a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She looks _relaxed_ , Andy realizes after a long minute of trying to place the utterly unfamiliar expression. Which is pretty cool in and of itself, because how many people can ever have seen Miranda even close to relaxed?

  
Andy bites her bottom lip in a moment of uncertainty (because oh, Miranda is _married_ and then there’s _Nate_ ), but her other hand has no such qualms. Soon she’s charting a dual course north on both of Miranda’s legs, and _oh hell_ Miranda shifts just a little and actually parts her thighs just a little to allow Andy easier access around Miranda’s (apparently very sensitive) knees.

  
There’s no relaxation about Miranda now, not judging from the way she’s tensing up under Andy’s still-gentle caresses. A little whimper or two would suggest that Miranda isn’t exactly disappointed by the development, and there’s no mistaking her enthusiasm when Andy rakes her fingernails overly perfectly smooth shins.

  
“You like this,” Andy whispers, and her voice crackles in the silence the way her old cassette tapes used to.

  
Miranda makes a non-committal noise in the back of her throat suggesting that, yes, she very much does.

  
“You like that I take care of you,” Andy decides to risk a quick kiss, pressed against the silky skin of Miranda’s scarcely-exposed thigh. “You like that I can look after you better than anyone else.”

  
“Mmm,” is Miranda’s measured response, and her head remains tipped back just a little, meaning she doesn’t have to look at Andy, doesn’t have to admit how much she wants this. Well that is not going to stand, not when Andy has every bit as much to lose from acting on this weird undercurrent that’s been plaguing their every interaction for weeks now.

  
She kisses that soft thigh once more, open-mouthed and with a warning graze of teeth. It’s enough to make Miranda arch her back, and Andy knows now that they’re not turning back. This has changed between them, for good, and she’s damn well going to enjoy every second of it.

  
Which means, Andy tells herself, that she’s beyond entitled to a kiss. She’s been secretly fantasizing about (and subsequently denying) the almost unbearable appeal of Miranda’s mouth for longer than she can admit to herself. She stands and braces herself on Miranda’s knees, using that contact to pull Miranda closer. It comes as precisely no surprise when Miranda takes that opportunity to wrap her legs around Andy, effectively trapping her; that’s okay, Andy can’t think of a single place she’d rather be.

  
Before she claims her kiss, Andy takes Miranda’s face in her hands. Miranda leans into the touch slightly, resting her cheek against Andy’s right hand. When her eyes slip closed, Andy takes her cue and closes the tiny distance between them to have her kiss.

  
It does _not_ disappoint, Andy thinks as she feels her head begin to spin. Miranda kisses with the kind of thoroughness and panache that are her trademarks, and Andy knows she has a fight on her hands to retain any semblance of control here. She’s alternately in pursuit of, and then at the mercy of Miranda’s flickering tongue and lips that just cry out to be sucked on. There’s an edge to it too, when Miranda captures Andy’s bottom lip she isn’t afraid to bite down, and Andy thinks maybe she should be a little embarrassed at how loudly that particular move made her moan.

  
But there’s no need to be self-conscious in this empty space with its closed door. Plenty of people saw them come into the room, and nobody is suicidal enough to disturb La Priestly without an explicit invitation. And speaking of explicit, Andy has a daydream or two that she fully intends to transform into reality.

  
She lets her mouth wander to Miranda’s elegant jaw, fully intent on kissing her way along until she can suck on Miranda’s earlobe; but Andy is stopped in her tracks by Miranda’s hands wrapping around her wrists.

  
“Wait,” Miranda murmurs against Andy’s face. “Let me take care of you, for once.”

  
Andy actually pulls back a little in surprise at that, but finds nothing other than heavy-lidded sincerity in Miranda’s face. Miranda guides Andy’s hands until they’re wrapped around Miranda’s waist, and they resume their kissing with a much more frantic pace.

  
A sudden commotion outside the door makes them both freeze, and when the chatter doesn’t die down, Miranda uncrosses her legs and lets Andy stumble free. Without meeting each other’s eye, they smooth down mussed clothing and hair, making themselves presentable enough to rejoin the world. Andy defers to Miranda again, letting her lead the way back to the door and the hallway beyond, but when Miranda reaches for the door handle she pauses, tilting her head in that way she has.

  
Andy’s too busy watching Miranda to understand why at first, but then she hears it, too. Or doesn’t hear it, to be more accurate--because the gaggle of designers has continued on past this empty room. Andy doesn’t even get a chance to comment before Miranda is on her like a woman possessed, yanking Andy up against the wall with much more strength than such a slender woman should have in those arms.

  
She’s feeling pretty thoroughly manhandled (and loses a button, which Miranda will surely be annoyed about later) by Miranda’s urgency, but it’s hard to protest when nerve endings all over her body are firing in response to Miranda’s touch. Her blouse is the first casualty of Miranda’s newfound war on clothing, with that first button popping off, and then the rest being undone with slightly trembling fingers while Miranda explores Andy’s neck with her mouth.

  
If kissing had Andy turned on, then it’s nothing compared to the warm caress of Miranda’s hands over her bra. Andy’s nipples betray her in a second, hard under the black lace and Miranda’s touch, but she’s eternally grateful for that front clasp just a few moments later when Miranda pops it and shows Andy just how much better it feels without anything in the way.

  
Miranda’s hands give way to her mouth, trailing kisses down Andy’s chest and over the curve of each breast in turn. She traces idle patterns with her tongue too, finding every sensitive inch of skin without straying to toy with Andy’s nipples just yet. When she does take one between wet lips, sucking hard and biting just a little, Andy drops her head back against the exposed plaster and swallows a scream. She’s in sensory overload, but she wouldn’t make it stop even if she had the slightest idea how.

  
That overload isn’t helped by Miranda’s wandering hands, one of which is pulling up the tight black skirt until it’s resting around Andy’s hips. Andy knows she should be doing more to return this tidal wave of sensation, but she’s too overwhelmed to think of much more than running her fingers through Miranda’s silver hair. Miranda isn’t complaining, in fact she seems perfectly content to take care of Andy, just like she said she would. Miranda Priestly may do many things: make grown men cry for sport, spend thousands of dollars on a whim, or create an office environment that even Dante would have balked at when conjuring up the seven levels of Hell, but she always says exactly what she means—and honors it, too.

  
Andy knows she’s wet, of course, but it isn’t until Miranda’s fingers skim over Andy’s panties that she realizes she’s already soaked through that scrap of black lace. Miranda hisses in what might be appreciation when she encounters it, and Andy squirms a little under her touch. If anyone walks past the door now, hell, even if anyone walks into the room, Andy knows she’ll kill that person if it makes Miranda stop.

  
Miranda releases Andy’s nipple with a gentle ‘pop’, kissing her way back to the pulse point at the base of Andy’s neck. It’s going to take more than concealer if Miranda keeps up this level of attention, but it’s kind of hard to give a damn. It gets even harder when Miranda finally relents and pulls Andy’s panties down, quick and rough. There’s no time to think before Miranda’s slender fingers are tracing the edges of Andy’s wetness, a teasing contact that’s enough to have Andy ready to beg. And she knows now that she will, if Miranda wants her to.

  
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” Miranda whispers against the column of Andy’s throat, and it makes Andy’s breath hitch in panic. “An idle fantasy; and somehow you’ve made it real. How do you do that, Andrea?”

  
Andy has no answer for her, even if she could form words. Speaking has taken a backseat to the feel of Miranda’s tentative stroking of her clit, a rhythmic circling that makes Andy’s knees buckle. She’s already so close, pressed against a wall and trussed up in her own half-discarded clothing, she is completely at Miranda’s mercy. What stuns Andy is how happy she is to be in exactly that situation.

  
“Please,” is all she can say. Andy doesn’t know what she’s asking for exactly, but she’s confident that Miranda will give it to her. “Please,” and it’s a sob this time. She needs to come so badly she could cry. She needs to come before there’s another interruption, before Miranda changes her mind, or Andy wakes up and discovers this is just some vivid dream.

  
But it isn’t a dream, because Andy has never dreamt about the warm, tickling sensation of Miranda’s breath just beneath her ear. She’s never dreamt about watching Miranda lean back to appraise the sight of Andy, wanton and seconds from orgasm, writhing against Miranda’s fingers. And there’s nothing remotely dreamlike about the feeling of Miranda finally pressing two fingers inside, where Andy’s craving her touch most.

  
It doesn’t take long then, because one minute Andy feels the pressure building between her thighs and the next she’s crying out against Miranda’s other hand, which has clamped down over her mouth. Andy doesn’t care about being quiet, but Miranda at least has the presence of mind to prevent her from putting on a show.

  
Just as Andy feels like she’s getting her breath back, she feels Miranda’s thrusts--which had slowed to almost a complete stop--pick up again. Andy makes herself focus on Miranda, even though she can feel the onset of a second climax, and sees pure lust radiating back at her.

  
This time, she comes so hard she almost blacks out.

  
She knows Miranda is holding her up, and Andy can’t resist the impulse to hug while she’s caught in Miranda’s arms. Miranda doesn’t resist, or complain about creasing her clothes, and for some reason that’s the best part of the whole damn thing. The walls are well and truly down.

  
When they part, Andy blushes furiously at the state she finds herself in. She moves to kiss Miranda, but is deflected at the last minute. Just as the tears burn in her eyes at this instant rejection, Miranda places a soothing hand on Andy’s cheek.

  
“We have to go,” Miranda explains. “But that doesn’t mean we’re done.”

  
Which makes sense, Andy reluctantly concedes. That they haven’t been caught yet is a minor miracle, and Miranda still has at least three meetings this afternoon. It doesn’t stop her mourning the chance to touch Miranda the way Andy has just been touched. Especially as she watches Miranda sensuously lick her still-wet fingers, savoring the taste before retrieving a silk hanky to wipe away the remaining evidence of their little tryst.

  
It only takes a minute or so to put her clothes right, and Andy knows there’s nothing to be done about her missing button right now. Thankfully, Miranda’s only response is to gaze appreciatively at Andy’s now more exposed cleavage. With Miranda taking the lead (again) they stride out into the mercifully deserted hallway and walk in silence downstairs to the waiting Mercedes. Andy fumbles desperately for things to say: professional things, mundane things, anything that isn’t ‘ _hey, thanks for fucking me senseless, Miranda_ ’. It’s surprisingly hard to think of anything that isn’t about that last point.

  
Miranda seems unperturbed, as though the last twenty minutes happened to someone else entirely. It’s only when the car is pulling out into traffic that Miranda leans across the minimal space between them to whisper words meant for Andrea’s ears only.

  
“I very much enjoyed the sight of you on your knees, Andrea. I fully intend to have you back there before the day is out.”

  
Andy gasps at the confession, and all at once her body is thrumming with arousal again.

  
“You know,” she murmurs conspiratorially, “I could always cancel your afternoon.”

  
“Why would we do that?” Miranda shoots back, shaking her head. But she hesitates, for just a second, and it turns into a nod. Andy rejoices silently, reaching for her phone. She’s dialing the first number when she hears Miranda issue the slightly shaky instruction to not-Roy.

  
“Home. Now.”


End file.
